


In Starlit Nights

by OccasionallyCreative



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Kissing, Secret Relationship, Short One Shot, Wordcount: 500-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Never trust a thief.” </p>
<p>Her mouth twitches with the threat of a smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Starlit Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Partially based on the beginning of [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LRWXKJIhvAQ) from Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End (approximately 0:00 - 0:50). 700 word count because I'm still exploring these characters and working out exactly how to write them in-character. Title comes from Echo & The Bunnymen's "The Killing Moon" - which, I'll be honest, sums up entirely my shipping aesthetic for these two.

They meet on a planet once thriving, but lost in the haze of time. She leaves the Falcon behind on D'Qar, stealing a ship the Resistance uses for rare supply runs. Flies through the planet's atmosphere until she finds the image in her mind: stretches of white sand underneath burning yellow sun and a red sky. She lands on a remote beach, blowing white sand everywhere, and climbs out. She leaves the lightsaber, but keeps her quarterstaff close. Beyond the midday sun, she knows, is the dark of the galaxy, nebulas and black holes and stars, planets yet to be discovered.

She finds him standing at the water's edge, a distant dark figure with his hands locked behind his back. His lightsaber is strapped to his side. Sensing before she can announce herself, he turns. Rey lets her quarterstaff slide from her shoulder, digs it into the sand until it sticks.

He starts walking at the same time as her. They don't even manage a greeting. His hands are already on her waist, her hips, his forehead pressing against hers. They remain like that for a while, until their mouths find each other. Then he's picking her up with ease, kissing her with his trademark greed, and it's her legs around his hips as he holds her tight.

* * *

In the setting sun, this planet’s waters are mixed grey and blue. She stays in the safety of the sand, the safety of what she knows.

“Never trust a thief.” 

Her mouth twitches with the threat of a smile.

“Scavenger,” she corrects. She doesn't move from her place in the sand, her legs bent at the knee, her upper half propped up by her arms, fingers feeling every grain of sand underneath her palms and the wind on her face. He kneels in front of her.

The planet’s water is behind him, the setting sun above. His hair is tangled by the sea wind (cold wherever they land). The cloak, helmet, gloves are all abandoned somewhere on this island, this beach—she never stays long enough to know exactly where she is with him. There could be a whole culture beyond the dunes, newly thriving or thrumming with history; or it could be another Jakku, its people clustered together in a desert, surrounded by junk, spending their lives trading and bartering.

Whichever planets they land on, Rey just clings, because there’s a loneliness in him that she recognises. (He recognises that loneliness right back.)

His hands cover almost all of her bare shin with ease. Sliding across her skin, fingers pausing, almost in some kind of reverence, pulsating small circles against the surface. She holds her breath. Another threat of a smile comes to her lips. Just as he holds her heel and slides his boot from her foot. She wiggles her toes at him, raising an eyebrow in response to his withered look.

The withered look turns heated, a reminder of why they’re here—it’s dangerous, what she’s doing, what they’re both doing, and she wishes she could stop it—before he removes the other boot. She digs her bare feet into the hot sand.

Kylo puts his mouth in place of his hands, tracing his breath, dropping kisses onto skin. That’s the reward for their risk. They should feel vulnerable to see each other so clearly, like enemies do. Or at least feel a strange sort of kinship, as warriors do. But safety is not vulnerability. Safety is not kinship.

(For a moment, she wonders when it stopped being ‘him’ and ‘her’ and started being  _‘they’_.)

He climbs over her small body. He is so big and cumbersome where she is lithe and quick. ‘Croke’, he called her once in the midst of a battle. The insult was spat through a split lip and blood that he licked away with his tongue, eyes always fully on her. (He never turns his back on her.)

He takes the memory of that battle with a kiss to her lips, too soft and too brief, with his hand curving against her jaw. She sinks her fingers into his hair, kissing him back as he slides his fingers against her wet centre with a knowledge of her body that he shouldn’t possess. She comes with a soft moan, an arching back and a heavy sigh.

Together, they lie as the sun sets until the waters are black and two moons hang in the sky.


End file.
